


we'll always have paris

by glitterary



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bastille feels, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, TECHNICALLY it would have been the Conciergerie at that time, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23988121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterary/pseuds/glitterary
Summary: The same story told once from Aziraphale's POV and once from Crowley's, each hopelessly pining for the other.Crowley convinces Aziraphale to join him on a "work trip" to Paris, which is really just a thinly-veiled excuse to eat crêpes and wander around cobbled streets. But stumbling over memories in a museum prison cell leaves them both fearing they've lost each other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	1. Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't quite fit into the timeline of either the book or the TV show; really, I just wanted to see Crowley push Aziraphale up against a cell wall and then all this happened.
> 
> It's the same events first from Aziraphale's perspective and then from Crowley's. They are both absolute idiots desperately pining for one another without realising that they're both equally smitten. Theoretically you could read the chapters in either order, or only read one, but I think both with Aziraphale's side first is more satisfying.

Aziraphale hadn’t really understood how utterly lost he was until the church and the bomb and the Nazis. Until Crowley had handed him a bag of books and the realisation that he was in love had hit him exactly the way that the collapsing church _hadn’t_.

But he should have realised in 1793.

Paris was when it had really started getting out of control.

  
  


‘Angel. I’m popping over to Paris. Want to come?’ Crowley wrapped himself around the side edge of the doorframe, half in and half out of the bookshop. Even when he wasn’t in his snake form he had a habit of trying to constrict the architecture.

‘I have a bookshop to run. I’m very busy and important,’ responded Aziraphale primly. He returned his attention to the map he was studying behind the register at his desk. ‘Is Poland new? This atlas is from 1904 and it’s not in it. As a country, I mean.’

Crowley made a wiggly gesture with his hand and disentangled himself from the doorjamb. ‘Sort of. Not really. Do you pay any attention at all to places without good food?’

‘I like pierogies,’ protested Aziraphale. He paused, considering other potentially true statements in defense of countries not known for their cuisine. ‘And… people. From everywhere. Including Poland.’

Crowley rolled his eyes. He perched on the desk next to Aziraphale and leaned over him suggestively. ‘Paris has good food.’

Aziraphale looked back to the atlas. The smell of Crowley’s expensive perfume wafted over him. Aziraphale knew it was expensive because he’d once gone to Harrods and smelled all the bottles until he found the right one, and the price tag had made him feel too guilty to buy it and pretend to himself that he would give it to Crowley as a Christmas present someday.

The demon leaned towards him conspiratorially, his voice just a little darker than before. ‘Go on, I’ll be bored by myself.’

Aziraphale took a deep breath, which was a mistake because it just meant another hit of Crowley’s scent. 

He offered some token resistance. ‘Only if you say the magic word.’

‘Crêpes,’ whispered Crowley seductively.

Aziraphale grinned despite himself and closed the atlas. ‘Oh, alright then. As you asked so nicely.’ He stood up and dinged the bell on the counter a couple of times. ‘Sorry everyone! Closing early! Come back on Tuesday morning and I’ll give you a discount.’

The few customers grumbled and started to file out.

‘You’re closed on Tuesdays,’ said Crowley, once they were all gone.

Aziraphale looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Am I? I must have forgotten.’

Crowley’s smile in response was dazzling. ‘Come on then.’

  
  


They settled down opposite one another in First Class on the Eurostar. 

Crowley leaned back and stretched out his ridiculous legs under the table, one of them resting maddeningly against Aziraphale’s calf. ‘Two hours to Paris. Might as well get comfortable, angel.’

Aziraphale wondered whether it would be socially acceptable to not move at all for two hours in order to maintain the sensation of Crowley’s limb against his. _Probably not. Definitely not theologically acceptable, either._

He shifted slightly, pretending to move into a more comfortable position, though not enough to break contact altogether. ‘So what are we doing in Paris? Have you brought anything to nibble on?’

The demon produced a plastic WH Smith bag and pulled out a magazine ‘Some crisps and jelly babies in there too.’ Aziraphale descended on them with a small, gleeful noise. 

Crowley opened his copy of Esquire to an article on why he absolutely needed another ridiculously expensive watch. ‘I’m spreading a rumour that they’re going to rebuild Notre-Dame as an interfaith cultural centre. It’ll never happen, of course, but it’ll really wind people up.’

Aziraphale briefly considered whether this was the sort of thing he was supposed to be thwarting, and whether thwarting it would mean he got to spend more or less time wandering around the Marais with Crowley and reminiscing about various meals they’d had there in the past.

‘Well,’ he concluded magnanimously, ‘who am I to oppose the idea of people joining together as one to praise God?’

Crowley turned the page in his magazine, looking smug. ‘Yeah, thought it’d be alright with your lot.’

‘Quite so.’ Aziraphale popped a red jelly baby in his mouth. ‘After all, are not all those who have faith equal in the eyes of the Lord?’

He followed the sweet up with a green one. ‘Oh, ugh, I don't like those ones.’

Crowley’s lips twitched. 

‘Oh, hush, you.’ Aziraphale pulled the WH Smith bag towards him and plucked out another magazine. It turned out to be a global-warming-we’re-all-going-to-die special edition of New Scientist. He sighed and waved the cover at Crowley.

‘I don’t understand it. The humans love this place. Every year I can feel the background love growing. How can they let all this happen?’

Crowley shrugged and picked up an orange. ‘Dunno. ’s ineffable.’ 

‘Hmm.’

‘Maybe it’s just because there’s more of them now,’ said Crowley, who seemed to be suddenly very interested in getting all the peel off the orange in one piece.

Aziraphale leaned back and did some calculations in his head. It didn’t quite fit, but it was close enough.

‘Aha!’ Crowley triumphantly held the long curl of orange peel aloft before throwing it over his shoulder. 

‘Crowley!’

‘Oh, alright, alright, I’ll go and get it.’ He handed the peeled fruit to Aziraphale. ‘Orange segment?’

Aziraphale smiled. ‘Oh, you do spoil me,’ he said, and a little voice in the back of his head worried that it was true.

Crowley went to throw away the orange peel, and when he returned they read in silence until the train pulled into the Gare du Nord.

  
  


While Crowley was making people grouchy about the long arc of the universe bending towards justice at the ruins of the Notre-Dame, Aziraphale popped into the Conciergerie a couple of streets away. He told Crowley it was to see an exhibition of medieval legal manuscripts, but he ignored the papers in the main hall and made his way through the former prison to the preserved cells.

It was quiet in this part of the museum. Cold, dim light shone through the iron grille on the window opposite. Aziraphale’s heart beat a little faster. 

He leaned against the back wall of the cell and closed his eyes. It had been in a place like this that he first realised how much trouble he was in. He’d turned around, taken in Crowley draped over the chair in the corner, and mentally committed about eleven sins in three seconds.

He hadn’t known angels were even _capable_ of some of those feelings.

And the lust… well, that wasn’t the worst thing. He could write that off as an awkward side effect of inhabiting a human form. But some nights he couldn’t get to sleep from remembering the feeling of being _saved_. Of having someone free him not just from the jail, but from all of it—Heaven, Hell, the constant, _constant_ guilt.

Afterwards, they had gone for crêpes, and Aziraphale hadn’t quite been able to keep his eyes off Crowley’s remarkable tongue as the demon licked powdered sugar from his fingers.

‘I’ll admit,’ Crowley had said, ‘that those were very good. Probably not worth getting guillotined for, though.’

Aziraphale had given himself a quick shake and looked back to his plate. ‘No, I see that now. Good thing you were there.’ He’d paused. ‘I mean… thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ 

And of course, Crowley _didn’t_ mean anything by it. The way he’d sprawled lazily in the corner, the way he liked to turn up like a dashing hero in a cheap novel—temptation was in his nature. He probably didn’t even know he was doing it. In fact, given how much he was already risking with the Arrangement, the demon was probably doing his best _not_ to be tempting around Aziraphale.

But however hard he was trying, it wasn’t enough.

‘Brings back memories, doesn’t it, angel?’

Aziraphale started. Crowley had appeared in the doorway directly opposite him, all angles and tight jeans and _unbelievably_ sexy. He peered at Aziraphale over his sunglasses.

‘Ah, hm,’ managed Aziraphale.

Crowley looked around, haloed by the light filtering in behind him. He ran his long fingers across the stones in the wall, apparently half-lost in thought. Somehow he always seemed to suck all the air out of the room. The demon made his way around the tiny cell, coming to rest with a hand on the wall beside Aziraphale. Crowley flashed him a toothy grin.

‘That bourgeois outfit looked good on you.’

Aziraphale swallowed, his eyes fixed on Crowley’s mouth. ‘I, um. I liked yours too.’

He was pinned beneath Crowley’s gaze. The demon inclined towards him, lips slightly parted. ‘I especially liked the ruffles.’

Aziraphale closed his eyes, helpless. He felt the hard stone wall against his back and the warmth of Crowley’s body leaning in towards his. His breath quickened— _oh God, I’m falling, I’m falling, I’m—_

There was an ear-splitting shriek and Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open. Crowley pulled back and looked around.

A small child tore past the cell door before returning to the entrance and to stare at them. ‘ _Maman, maman, ici, il y a des prisonniers!_ ’

Aziraphale sagged against the wall. Crowley pushed away as the child’s mother appeared in the doorframe. She looked at the two of them and winked. ‘ _Oui, Michel, c’est pour les hommes très coquins! Allons-y, viens avec moi._ ’

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale. The angel straightened up, fussing with his bow tie. ‘I, ah, I think I’ve seen everything here. Ice cream?’

For a moment, Crowley looked… lost? No, that couldn’t be it—confused. As though he wasn’t sure how they’d got into this position. Then the demon seemed to shake himself awake and smile thinly. Then: ‘Sure. Whatever you want.’

They made their way out.

Once they were back in the sunlight it was easier to carry on as usual, or at least try to.

‘It’s such a shame I can’t take you to Sainte-Chapelle,’ babbled Aziraphale. They’d stopped by an ice-cream stand and were now walking along the Seine.

Crowley made a noncommittal noise into his ice-cream cone.

‘There’s always the Louvre,’ continued Aziraphale, steadfastly ignoring the ice-cream that was starting to drip down his hand and onto his jacket. They’d come so close, so close to… what? For a moment, Aziraphale imagined Crowley’s lips on his—imagined Crowley’s arm tight around his waist, Crowley’s thigh pressing in between his legs—

He took a bite of ice-cream big enough to make his eyes hurt with the cold. _Stop it._

Aziraphale knew Crowley wasn’t stupid. But he was reckless, and this—

They’d been fraternising in some form or another for millennia. The thought of Hell finding out and destroying Crowley had always been enough for Aziraphale to keep him at an arm’s distance. Until now. Until Aziraphale let this stupid… thing rage out of control. _Shit_.

Demons were supposed to tempt, even if it led to their destruction.

Aziraphale was supposed to resist, for both their sakes.

They found a bench somewhere along the Seine to sit on. Aziraphale was twitchy, his leg bouncing up and down of its own accord. Crowley didn’t move.

‘We could go to the Musée de Cluny. Or Jacquemart-André. Montmartre? Or—’

Crowley threw the rest of his ice-cream cone into the bin next to them without offering it to Aziraphale. ‘Up to you, ang—Aziraphale. Wherever you want to go.’

  
  


In the end, they went to the Musée Jacquemart-André. Crowley sneered at the plants in the conservatory and Aziraphale tried to enjoy the paintings. (Heaven would have disapproved, but Fragonard was always his favourite.) They barely spoke, but it wasn’t their usual companionable silence. Aziraphale couldn’t figure out whether it was just him feeling awkward or whether Crowley was annoyed as well.

‘Shall we get dinner?’ Aziraphale suggested after a while. The museum would be closing soon anyway. 

Crowley pulled down his headset. ‘What?’

‘Dinner?’ Aziraphale tried again, hopefully. ‘There’s a lovely little bistro just—’

Crowley put his headset back on. ‘I’m not hungry. You go on. I’ll catch up with you at the hotel later.’

  
  


Eating alone was miserable. The waiter brought Aziraphale a glass of rather nice 1982 Bordeaux, but nothing ever seemed to taste as good as morsels stolen from Crowley’s plate. The demon ate so little that Aziraphale sometimes wondered whether Crowley only ever ordered for his benefit.

They’d been so comfortable, the past few centuries. The humans were inventive enough to keep Aziraphale and Crowley well-supplied with things to report to their respective head offices, leaving them free to focus on the altogether more pressing issues of trying out every flashy new restaurant in London and taking a long drive up to Scotland for the Edinburgh Fringe every year. And getting to this point had taken millennia of circling one another, a constant push-and-pull of dare and resistance that blurred the boundaries and gave them enough wiggle room to keep enjoying each other’s company. The Arrangement had been a kind of dance, and it relied on Crowley taking them right to the very edge of propriety and on Aziraphale pulling them back from it.

This afternoon, he hadn’t pulled back. It was as though Crowley had executed his half of a particularly impressive twirl, the crowd going wild and the judges already reaching for their scorecards, and Aziraphale had twisted his ankle and fallen smack on his face. 

Now, as the humans would say, he’d _made it weird_. He should have resisted, stopped Crowley before the demon got inside his defenses. But oh, the feeling of Crowley pressed against him, Crowley’s breath ghosting over his lips... Aziraphale shook himself out of the reverie. _Stupid, stupid._ A stupid lapse in composure, and now Crowley knew—he must—that Aziraphale’s feeling towards him were not just professional.

  
  


Back at the hotel, Aziraphale knocked on Crowley’s door. There was no answer. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely surprised—he usually spent much longer on dinner in Paris. Crowley wouldn’t expect him to be back this early.

Aziraphale hovered briefly in the hallway. His fingers itched to unlock Crowley’s door. Neither of them had even unpacked yet, but Aziraphale felt the almost irresistible pull to step into the space that wasn’t his, a space he had no right to be in. A space Crowley would call his own later tonight.

He wouldn’t even touch anything.

It wouldn’t _technically_ be a sin.

Aziraphale’s fingertips brushed the door handle. With a soft click, the lock unlatched.

_Just for a moment._

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut. 

With a great effort, he drew his hand back and hurried downstairs to the hotel bar. Without even asking about the wines, he ordered a brandy and downed it in one gulp. 

_He can’t help but be tempting. It’s in his nature. And here I am risking everything for both of us._

Hands shaking, Aziraphale ordered another drink.

What he needed was time to cool off. _Yes._ When Crowley got back, he’d have a chat with him. _Awfully sorry, dear boy, but this whole divine love for all creatures thing has gotten me into a bit of a pickle vis-à-vis… well,_ you _. Best take a break from each other for a little while. Five hundred years or so, maybe a millennium to be on the safe side._

He could put in for a secondment upstairs. A desk job—maybe something in the records office. 

Aziraphale took the second brandy the bartender had poured for him, still feeling a little weak but no longer shaking. He settled into an armchair with an oblique view of the lobby. 

When Crowley arrived, they’d talk.

  
  


At midnight, he was still waiting. Someone—not Crowley—approached from the hall.

‘Excusez-moi, monsieur—le bar ferme.’

Aziraphale recognised the woman as the concierge who had checked them in at the same moment she recognised him and remembered his poor attempts at French. ‘Ah, sir—the bar is closing,’ she repeated. ‘Perhaps you are waiting for your companion?’

Aziraphale’s heart gave a little jolt. ‘Yes—I don’t suppose he’s arrived and gone up, has he?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ responded the concierge. As this was a very expensive hotel, she kept her tone carefully neutral and devoid of any trace of pity.

‘Oh,’ said Aziraphale, looking down into his fourth glass of brandy.

‘I’m afraid we must close the bar in five minutes, but if you wish more time you can finish your drink in the lobby,’ suggested the concierge. 

The idea of waiting by the door like a disapproving parent made Aziraphale feel a little queasy. Crowley would hate it. ‘No, that’s… that’s quite alright. I’ve had quite enough, really.’ 

Aziraphale set the nearly-empty brandy glass down on the coffee table and sobered up just enough to refill it. 

Back in his hotel room, he puttered around aimlessly, flicking through the copy of New Scientist and failing to understand something about carbon nanotubes. He wasn’t sure if the brandy was helping or not. 

Around three o’clock in the morning, he decided to give sleep a chance. Neither he nor Crowley actually needed to sleep, but Aziraphale knew Crowley’s preferred sin was slothfulness. And, he supposed, it _was_ a rather good way of drawing a line between one day and the next, rather than simply letting the awfulness ceaselessly roll on and on. 

The bed was soft and inviting. For a while, Aziraphale dozed, opening his eyes at any sound that might be Crowley returning. Then, finally, he drifted off.

  
  


Despite his late night, Aziraphale awoke at dawn. The clock showed 05:39. There was no way Crowley would be awake this early. Aziraphale closed his eyes and tried to will himself back to sleep, but instead spent several more hours getting his legs increasingly tangled in the bedsheets.

At eight-thirty exactly, he got out of bed and knocked on Crowley’s door.

There was no answer.

‘Crowley?’ He knocked again. ‘Do you want to come for breakfast?’ 

Still no answer.

Aziraphale forced himself not to unlock the door again and headed down to the breakfast room, where the concierge was waiting to take people’s room numbers with a laptop. Aziraphale wondered if she ever slept.

‘Uh, Monsieur Crowley, l’homme est arrive avec moi, il est ici? Uh, dans le chambre?’

The concierge—Hélène, her badge said—took pity on him and answered in English. ‘I did not see him last night.’ She tapped a few keys on the booking computer, then looked confused. ‘I think there is some mistake. It says here Mr Crowley checked out, at three o’clock. But I was on reception until four, and I did not see him.’

‘Oh.’

It was unlike Crowley to break a promise. Aziraphale nervously tapped his keycard on the desk.

‘Would you like breakfast, sir?’ asked the concierge mildly. 

‘I… I think I’ll just take a croissant, and go for a walk,’ said Aziraphale, picking a pastry that was probably meant to be ornamental from a bowl on the desk. ‘Actually, um, can I just make a call?’

The concierge nodded and pointed him to a phone on a small table across the lobby. Aziraphale dialled the number from memory. Answerphone, unsurprisingly.

‘Crowley, when you get this, can you call the book—oh, blast, no, don’t call the bookshop, I’m not there—can you just call the hotel?’

Aziraphale hung up and waved at the concierge. ‘I’ll, um, I’ll be back in a bit to check out.’

Without waiting for an answer, he hurried through the lobby and out the door.

  
  


Blinking in the early morning sun, Aziraphale ran through a mental list of where Crowley might have gone—the Marais? Pigalle? The catacombs?

He started down the road towards the cemetery, but had barely turned the first corner when an acrid smell assaulted his nostrils. Aziraphale felt all his power rushing to the surface, tingling under his skin and straining to explode outwards. His angelic form pulsed inside his human body, alert and ready for battle.

_Hellfire._

He quickly looked around, scanning the quiet Parisian street for anything that might suggest demonic activity. Nothing. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves on the trees and a shop bell tinkled as a customer left the boulangerie a few buildings away. Aziraphale looked down and saw a black circle scorched onto the pavement directly in front of him.

He took another deep breath, gauging the harshness of the scent and tension in the atmosphere. Now that the initial shock was past, it was clear that the marks had been made sometime in the night. There hadn’t been any demonic activity in the area since.

A sudden chill ran down Aziraphale’s spine. What if they’d been seen, in the cells? If Heaven knew he’d fallen for a demon, it would be back upstairs and no more sushi for him, and that would be the end of that. 

But if _Hell_ had found out…

Even with the embarrassment of yesterday, Aziraphale didn’t think that Crowley would betray him. But if Hell realised they could threaten Crowley to make Aziraphale betray Heaven, they wouldn’t hesitate to apply that pressure—regardless of what Crowley wanted.

How long would he hold out, knowing that Crowley was being hurt? _Thumbscrews hellfire cages scourges holy water—_

Aziraphale put out a hand to steady himself against the wall. Humans might be more inventive torturers than demons, but there was a reason Hell had a reputation for it. He repressed the urge to be sick.

  
  


As Aziraphale frantically dashed to each of the places Crowley might have gone—the catacombs, Père Lachaise, the Musée de Cluny, Pigalle, all fruitless—a cold certainty began to seep through him. 

If Hell had taken Crowley, Aziraphale would do anything to keep him safe.

And if they threatened to hurt him, Aziraphale was as good as Fallen.

After searching the Jardin du Luxembourg, Aziraphale sat down heavily on a seat in the Metro. It was hopeless—Paris was just too big. If Crowley was being held captive by the forces of evil, they wouldn't be hiding him in the Louvre; if they hadn't, and Crowley had just decided that being friends with a mortal enemy who was embarrassingly smitten with him was just too cringeworthy, he wouldn’t want to be found. Not by Aziraphale.

The thought was almost as painful as the possibility that Crowley had been kidnapped, though significantly less anxiety-inducing.

Of course, if Hell _had_ taken Crowley with the intention of blackmailing Aziraphale, Aziraphale needed to be somewhere Hell could find him.

Aziraphale set his jaw. The carriage rumbled its way back in the direction of the hotel.

  
  


Back at the hotel, Aziraphale checked out and left another message for Crowley. It was risky—Hell might be monitoring Crowley's voicemail—but there wasn't much he could say that would make it worse if they already knew anyway.

Still, he tried to keep the panic out of his voice.

‘Crowley, if you’re there, please pick up. Please. I'm—I’m heading back to London, so if— _when_ you get this, um, can you call me there? Or meet me. Please.’

A vision of Crowley chained and bloodied swam unbidden into his thoughts. A lump rose in Aziraphale’s throat. _Please, no._

He realised he hadn't put the phone down and the message was still recording. ‘It's Aziraphale. Thanks. Bye.’

He replaced the handset and stared briefly at it, trying to shake the mental image of Crowley in Hell’s clutches. He wouldn't let it come to that. 

Grabbing the handle of his overnight bag, he squared his shoulders and swept out of the lobby and into a taxi heading to the Gare du Nord.

  
  


Two and a half hours later, Aziraphale’s train pulled into St Pancras. Somewhat miraculously, it was half an hour ahead of schedule, which was as fast as Aziraphale could make it go without hitting the train in front of it.

Aziraphale was a nervous wreck. He was twenty minutes from home, which might mean twenty minutes from a voicemail from Crowley telling him not to be so melodramatic or twenty minutes from a ransom note.

He hurried down the platform, dodging past other passengers and ducking into the Underground to the Piccadilly line. The Tube was cramped and stifling and full of bodies. Once, when they were drunk, Aziraphale had asked Crowley about Hell. The demon had said something about rush hour and condensation and then changed the subject.

At Piccadilly, Aziraphale fought his way out of the crowds and headed towards his bookshop. As he reached the corner his fingers curled around the key in his pocket, tight enough to hurt his palm on the sharp edges.

He took a deep breath. The bookshop looked normal enough—there was no note with letters cut out of magazines on the door, no broken glass where a brick wrapped in a threatening letter had been smashed through the window.

Would they be that theatrical? Or would there just be a demon waiting inside to give him the bad news?

Aziraphale fumbled with the lock, his hand trembling. After two attempts, he managed to slide in the key and turn it. He took a deep breath.

The door gave way.

  
  


Aziraphale flicked on the light and almost had a heart attack.

‘Oh dear God, _Crowley_.’

‘Hi, angel.’ The demon was leaning against the register, twisting the fabric of his jacket in his hands as though he didn't know what to do with them. He flinched against the late-afternoon light.

Relief flooded Aziraphale’s body. He dropped his bag and took a few quick steps towards Crowley. His arms ached to wrap around the demon, feel him warm and solid and _safe_. ‘Thank goodness—I was so worried—there was a big patch of Hellfire—’

Crowley started towards Aziraphale. ‘Hellfire? Angel, _are you alright?_ ’

‘No—no, I'm fine, it was gone by the time I got there, I wasn't—’ The tension that had been keeping Aziraphale upright left him and his knees wobbled. He felt Crowley’s hand on his arm as he cast a hand out to steady himself on an armchair. _Safe_. Crowley was safe. 

A sudden fury shot through him. ‘Where the dev—where on earth did you go? I looked all over Paris for you!’

‘I ah. Needed some time. To think.’ Crowley took his hand away and returned to wringing the hem of his jacket.

‘ _To think?_ That’s it? _I thought you’d been discorporated_.’ Tears prickled behind Aziraphale’s eyes. He clenched them tightly— _no, no, keep it in—_ anger was safer than letting Crowley see how close to utter despair Aziraphale had come without him. Things were bad enough already. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to ground himself in the sensation.

Blood pounded in his ears. Crowley was saying something about being sorry but Aziraphale barely heard it. It was like a burst pipe—all the worry of the previous days, all the desperation of the centuries leading up to it, it all bubbled up and poured from his mouth in a torrent. ‘I’ve been worried sick! Would it kill you to think about _me_ every once in a while?’ 

_I think about you all the time—I’m so, so careful, and I slipped up_ one time _and it doesn’t even mean anything to you—you let me be so scared—_

‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he burst out. 

And at the exact same moment, Crowley said ‘I love you.’

Aziraphale froze. He couldn’t possibly have heard what he thought he’d heard. His heart pounded in his throat. ‘What?’

Crowley kicked the carpet and put his hands in his pockets. He opened his mouth to speak, but turned away. For a terrible moment, Aziraphale thought that he might just leave.

Aziraphale trembled. ‘Crowley, what did you just say?’

Crowley looked away, blinking hard. He made a helpless gesture with his shoulders and wiped his sleeve across his face. ‘Look, there's no need to make a big deal out of it.’

It was the biggest deal since God sat down in Her workshop one day and decided to make some new-fangled creatures with something called free will. Aziraphale couldn't wrap his head around the enormity of it. 

‘That's. Um.’ _Wonderful, unbelievable, magnificent, stupendous. Impossible._ There must be some mistake here. This couldn’t possibly be real.

Crowley’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Bound to happen. Close quarters, long hours—and have you even _seen_ yourself?’

Aziraphale stared. Had _he_ seen himself? Had _Crowley_ seen himself?

Crowley took a step towards the door. His voice cracked, just a little. ‘I’ll just—I'll take some time away. No need to worry yourself.’

Finally, finally, Aziraphale’s brain caught up with what was happening. He reached out and took Crowley's hand. ‘Crowley—’

Crowley tensed. ‘I’ll deal with it. Please. It doesn’t have to change anything,’ he implored.

Aziraphale thought about how ready he’d been to sell out Heaven to save Crowley and felt a warm glow suffusing through him, from his cheeks to the tips of his hidden wings. It was like sunlight, like a symphony, like the first flowers peeking through frosted ground to announce that spring had finally arrived. It was love.

‘My dear boy,’ he whispered. He gently picked up Crowley’s hand and brought it to his face, pressing his lips against Crowley's knuckles. ‘It changes everything.’


	2. Crowley

Crowley rehearsed the invite as he headed through Soho to the bookshop. _Angel, do you want to come to Paris with me?_ Absolutely not—that sounded like the romantic weekend Crowley desperately wanted it to be but was completely out of the question. _Fancy a working holiday? Hey, can I tempt you with some frog’s legs?_

The bell jingled as he leaned halfway into the shop. The wood of the door frame was warm under Crowley’s fingers.

‘Angel. I’m popping over to Paris. Want to come?’ 

_Perfect_.

Aziraphale, glowing in a sunbeam behind his desk, didn’t look up. ‘I have a bookshop to run. I’m very busy and important,’ he responded. ‘Is Poland new? This atlas is from 1904 and it’s not in it. As a country, I mean.’

Crowley unwrapped himself from the doorframe and tried to wrap his head around twentieth-century Central European history instead. ‘Sort of. Not really.’

He breathed in the warm, dusty air of the bookshop, filled with the smell of leather and old paper. ‘Do you pay any attention at all to places without good food?’

‘I like pierogies,’ protested Aziraphale. He paused. ‘And… people. From everywhere. Including Poland.’

Crowley pressed his advantage. ‘Paris has good food.’ He slithered onto the desk, leaning into Aziraphale’s scent. Leather-bound books, and tea, and something lightly floral. Probably washing powder. On the one hand, Crowley wished he could buy a bottle of how good Aziraphale smelled, but on the other he didn’t want to risk doing more research only to find out that the one true love of his eternal life smelled like Lenor Floral Romance fabric softener, thirty-three washes for only £3. Some things should remain a mystery, you know?

He took a deep breath of the warm scent of tea, angel, and hopefully-not-too-cheap-laundry-liquid.

Aziraphale looked back at the atlas. _Damn Poland_. Somewhere in Poznań, an innocent administrative assistant tripped over a printer cable and got shouted at by his boss. 

Crowley tried to put on a studied air of not caring. ‘Go on, I’ll be bored by myself.’

Aziraphale huffed. ‘Only if you say the magic word.’

 _Ah, too easy._ Crowley leaned right into the angel’s space, soft hair tickling his cheek. ‘Crêpes.’

Aziraphale lit up and Crowley’s heart throbbed violently enough that he almost fell off the desk. 

‘Oh, alright then. As you asked so nicely.’ Aziraphale hit the bell on the counter. ‘Sorry everyone! Closing early! Come back on Tuesday morning and I’ll give you a discount.’

A man browsing the Foreign Fiction section opened his mouth to protest. Crowley peered over his glasses to give him a flash of snake eyes and the man hurriedly shelved the copy of _Candide_ he was holding in the middle of the Voltaires. Crowley looked back to Aziraphale. ‘You’re closed on Tuesdays.’

Aziraphale attempted an innocent expression. ‘Am I? I must have forgotten.’

Crowley grinned. ‘Come on then.’

  
  


Victory surged through Crowley as they boarded the train. Paris, Paris, so good they should have named it twice. He stretched out his legs, so high on the thought of three days of watching Aziraphale indulge in the best wine and food in Europe that he risked resting one of his legs against the angel’s calf. He stretched ostentatiously and yawned.

‘Two hours to Paris. Might as well get comfortable, angel.’

Aziraphale adjusted his waistcoat and loosened his bowtie a little. The sight was enough to make Crowley’s mouth go dry. The angel settled down again, his ankle still blessedly against Crowley’s, a point of contact that sent a thrill right up Crowley’s leg to his—well.

‘So what are we doing in Paris? Have you brought anything to nibble on?’

Crowley swallowed hard and wrenched his attention back to the upper half of his body. He grabbed the bag of sweets and magazines he’d hastily filled at WH Smith while Aziraphale insisted on buying tickets and pulled out a copy of Esquire to hide his reddening cheeks behind.

‘Some crisps and jelly babies in there too,’ he said, thrusting the bag at Aziraphale. The angel squeaked in delight.

Crowley flipped through his magazine. ‘I’m spreading a rumour that they’re going to rebuild Notre-Dame as an interfaith cultural centre. It’ll never happen, of course, but it’ll really wind people up.’

He peered over the article he’d landed on— _A Man Like You Deserves A Watch Like This_ —to gauge Aziraphale’s reaction.

The angel scrunched up his face adorably. A few different expressions flickered across it. It was like playing a one-armed bandit where the prize was adding a pebble to the pile of deliciously guilty smiles Crowley had extracted from Aziraphale over the years. Crowley held his breath.

And there it was. Aziraphale’s features settled into a look of beatific satisfaction made perfect by the little twitch of mischief at the corner of his mouth. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘who am I to oppose the idea of people joining together as one to praise God?’

Crowley concentrated on turning the pages of his magazine and not smiling. ‘Yeah, thought it’d be alright with your lot.’

‘Quite so.’ Aziraphale selected a red jelly baby from the bag and licked his lips. Crowley caught a flicker of pink tongue before hastily turning his attention to an article about what expensive lingerie overpaid bankers should buy for their girlfriends. Or for themselves, if they were a bit more open-minded.

‘After all, are not all those who have faith equal in the eyes of the Lord?’ continued Aziraphale, regally hoisting aloft a green jelly baby before eating it. ‘Oh, ugh, I don't like those ones.’ 

Crowley suppressed a smile. 

‘Oh, hush, you.’ Aziraphale pulled a copy of New Scientist out of the WH Smith bag and considered the cover. Crowley wished he’d paid a little more attention when grabbing the magazines. This one showed London underwater, reminding him uncomfortably of the Flood and the argument he and the angel had had afterwards.

Aziraphale sighed, gesturing at the illustration. ‘I don’t understand it. The humans love this place. Every year I can feel the background love growing.’

Crowley’s skin prickled, all the sirens in his internal warning system blaring.

‘How can they let all this happen?’

Crowley took an orange out of the WH Smith bag. ‘Dunno. ’s ineffable.’ 

_It’s me, you idiot. I love you. I love you more and more every day._

‘Hmm.’ Aziraphale’s forehead wrinkled. He looked like he might be thinking about all the other ways humans had been especially horrible to each other recently.

Crowley focused on his orange and tried to be nonchalant. ‘Maybe it’s just because there’s more of them now.’

The angel stilled for a moment, then nodded, half-satisfied. 

Thinking about old wives’ tales and feeling equal parts stubborn and ridiculous, Crowley succeeded in getting the orange peel off the fruit in one long piece. ‘Aha!’ He held up the long curl of peel, closed his eyes and chucked it over his shoulder.

Aziraphale looked up from his magazine. ‘Crowley!’

‘Oh, alright, alright, I’ll go and get it.’ Crowley passed the remainder of the orange to Aziraphale. ‘Orange segment?’

‘Oh, you do spoil me.’ Crowley’s cheeks heated and he stood up quickly to hide his face. The peel had sailed over the canoodling couple in the row behind him and landed in the aisle. If he angled his head slightly, it almost looked like it had fallen in the shape of a cursive letter _A._

Almost.

_You’re seven thousand years old. Stop acting like a teenage girl._

Crowley grabbed the peel and angrily flung it into the tiny bin under the table. 

When he got back to his seat, Aziraphale was absent-mindedly eating his fourth orange segment. Crowley settled back down with his magazine and quietly inching his leg back into contact with the angel’s. 

After dropping off their bags at the hotel, they made their way to the burned-out skeleton of the Notre-Dame. Aziraphale wandered off to see some kind of manuscript exhibition nearby, probably at the Musée de Cluny, and Crowley began spreading messages of religious tolerance and architectural modernism. 

After explaining to a tour group containing several priests that Jeff Bezos was going to pay for the roof on the condition that the bibles were replaced with e-readers containing all the world’s holy texts, Crowley started getting bored. This wasn’t his patch, really; the whole thing had been a ruse to get Aziraphale somewhere Crowley could buy him canneles and café au lait. Hell didn’t expect him to be causing problems in France when he could do it just as easily in London.

He considered heading over to the museum to find Aziraphale and make fun of the old paintings of Michael and Gabriel. Or...

 _No. That’s a terrible idea_.

Crowley gritted his teeth and headed towards the Conciergerie.

  
  


The main hall of the building was taken up with an exhibition of medieval documents, with temporary walls and information boards making it impossible to see the whole space. Crowley slipped behind the boards on one side and snuck straight past the manuscripts down towards the permanent collection in the old prison.

He was full of nervous energy, every cell in his body screaming _bad idea, bad idea_ as he rounded the corner to the corridor with bars on the windows.

He wasn’t sure why he did this to himself.

No, he knew exactly why.

Because hell, he’d hidden it at the time, but the sight of Aziraphale all dressed up and in chains had _done something_ to him. And Aziraphale’s face when he saw him—Crowley’s heart did a somersault at the memory.

 _I’ve been holding it in for millennia,_ Crowley told his nerves. _Let me have this one little indulgence._

The hallway was empty. Crowley walked more softly, imagining straw beneath his feet and a jeering mob outside. 

He closed his eyes and turned towards one of the cells. His mind filled in the important bits—the clink of iron, Aziraphale in his satin shoes and ruffles and chains and _waiting for him—_

Crowley opened his eyes and almost had a heart attack. 

Aziraphale was there.

The angel was leaning against the back wall, his eyes closed. For a moment, Crowley considered backing away down the hallway and meeting Aziraphale there when the angel was done… doing whatever he was doing here. Crowley suppressed the voice in his head that suggested Aziraphale might be in the cells for the same reasons he was.

No—if he tried to sneak off, Aziraphale might hear him as he walked away. Crowley decided to brazen it out and leaned against the doorway instead.

‘Brings back memories, doesn’t it, angel?’

Aziraphale started. Crowley felt a guilty rush of arousal at the hint of fear in the angel’s face, reminding him—just a little—of the time he’d swooped (well, tap-danced) into a church to save Aziraphale and his books from some truly useless Nazis in 1941. 

‘Ah, hm,’ said Aziraphale.

Crowley slowly crossed the tiny cell, taking in the sanitised version of 1793. He trailed his fingers along the stone walls before placing a hand on the wall beside Aziraphale and smiling. 

‘That bourgeois outfit looked good on you,’ he teased, relishing the memory.

The angel swallowed. ‘I, um. I liked yours too.’ His eyes flicked to Crowley’s lips.

A thrill ran down Crowley’s spine. He leaned a little closer. ‘I especially liked the ruffles,’ he continued. Aziraphale smelled—well, _divine_. 

Suddenly, Crowley realised how close his body was to Aziraphale’s. He’d inadvertently pinned the angel against the wall—there were only inches between them. Aziraphale was warm beneath him, tense but not afraid. 

He was still staring at Crowley's mouth.

Crowley felt a heady rush of power and stupidity. 

_Fuck it_ , he thought, _I’m going to make the biggest mistake of my life._

He tilted his head down towards Aziraphale, feeling the heat of the angel’s breath on his skin. He closed his eyes as he parted his lips and _finally, finally, finally—_

There was a piercing scream from somewhere behind him. Crowley’s eyes snapped open to Aziraphale staring back at him before looking past him to the source of the sound. Crowley pulled back and looked around.

A small child tore past the cell door before returning to the entrance and to stare at them. ‘ _Maman, maman, ici, il y a des prisonniers!_ ’

Crowley suppressed the urge to set the boy’s shoes on fire. Aziraphale sagged against the wall. The child’s mother appeared in the doorframe. She looked at the two of them apologetically. ‘ _Oui, Michel, c’est pour les hommes très coquins! Allons-y, viens avec moi._ ’

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, hoping against hope that the moment wasn’t irretrievably lost. But the angel straightened up, fussing with his bow tie. 

_Fuck. Fuck._ His only shot ruined by a stupid kid. Crowley felt his heart sink through the floor. The ground opening up and Hell taking him back forever would have been a blessing, so obviously it didn’t happen. 

Aziraphale gave him a nervous smile and stepped neatly away. ‘I, ah, I think I’ve seen everything here. Ice cream?’

That was it, then. Six millennia of hoping over forever, without even a half-second kiss in which he might have pretended it was reciprocated. Crowley thought his knees might buckle. He forced his voice not to break as he replied, ‘Sure. Whatever you want.’

They made their way out.

  
  


Crowley felt even more awkward when they got outside. Aziraphale was positively glowing in the sunshine, all goodness and propriety and suggestions about where they could go next. The light filtered through his hair like a halo.

‘...shame I can’t take you to Sainte-Chapelle,’ said the angel, apparently oblivious to the fact that Crowley would nurse blistered feet for a month if it allowed Aziraphale the pleasure of showing him something beautiful.

‘Mmm,’ responded Crowley, taking a bite of his ice cream.

 _What a stupid crush to nurse for six thousand years._ Angels were beings of pure love—the generic, all-encompassing, _polite_ kind, not the kind that made you want to pin someone down and make them squirm in eight different dimensions. Or even the kind that made you want to take them on work trips to Paris because somehow you couldn’t bear not being in the same city as them for two days.

They sat down on a bench somewhere along the Seine. Aziraphale was nervously bouncing his leg up and down. A guilty weight settled on Crowley, joining the big one he’d been carrying since that whole Falling business. _C’est la vie._

‘We could go to the Musée de Cluny. Or Jacquemart-André. Montmartre? Or—’

Crowley threw the rest of his ice-cream cone into the bin next to them without offering it to Aziraphale. ‘Up to you, ang—Aziraphale. Wherever you want to go.’

  
  


The museum was agonising. Crowley fiddled with his audioguide while Aziraphale pointed out some froofy paintings.

So this is what actual, outright rejection felt like. _Stupid, stupid. A good thing is never enough for you, is it? Not Heaven, not the Arrangement. Not a friend._

Out of spite, Crowley spiked the volume on a nearby couple’s audioguides so they had to stop holding hands and remove their headsets.

Aziraphale was being so bloody _kind_. Trying to pretend like Crowley hadn’t just gone too far and driven a great big wedge between them. He’d probably stop asking if Crowley wanted to go to the Ritz for tea. He’d probably stop covering temptations for Crowley and start doing more miracles—the ones he was _supposed_ to be doing, not the ones that meant two box tickets suddenly becoming available for _Hamilton_ or a pair of crocodile-leather shoes in Crowley’s size going on sale at Harrods. 

Crowley wanted to rip the paintings from the wall and jump on the canvases. He wanted to scream and sob and wreck something instead of pretending that everything was going to be alright. 

Aziraphale was saying something to him.

Crowley pulled down his headset. ‘What?’

‘Dinner?’ repeated Aziraphale. ‘There’s a lovely little bistro just—’

The idea of sitting next to Aziraphale by candlelight, listening to him trying (badly, charmingly) to speak French, and hearing his ridiculous (maddening, adorable) exclamations about the food was just too much. Crowley put his headset back on. ‘I’m not hungry. You go on. I’ll catch up with you at the hotel later.’

‘Oh.’ Aziraphale looked disappointed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley watched Aziraphale leave. _Sorry, angel. I’m supposed to torture other people, not myself._

Not that he’d ever been very good at that.

Crowley had never been one for eating more than his human form required, so he bought several bottles of wine at a supermarket and found a spot by the river to feel sorry for himself. He’d considered breaking into the catacombs or the Père Lachaise cemetery, but sulking in a graveyard felt a bit too on-the-nose even for him.

So he meandered through the sixth arrondissement until he got to the Jardin du Luxembourg, collapsed under a statue of Narcissus, and uncorked the first bottle of wine.

He’d let this go on altogether too long. He should have recognised that little flicker of interest on the walls of Eden and run a mile. Several miles. All the way to the next galaxy, and further if possible.

 _If anyone was ever damned by a glimpse of Paradise_ , he thought bitterly, taking another swig of what was now a rather good 1982 Bordeaux. 

What he needed was a good long break. The world didn’t need him—it was doing dreadfully all by itself. He could crawl into bed and set his alarm for 2108, by which time the Thames would probably have risen enough for him to need to find a new apartment.

Soho would probably be underwater by then, too. Aziraphale would have moved on.

Crowley felt a pang in his chest. He took another swig of wine.

Night began to fall around him. A park guard patrolled the park, telling tourists with cameras and locals with cigarettes to move on. His eyes slid right over Crowley, not registering him at all. After two laps Crowley heard the clink of a heavy lock at the nearest gate. He grimaced at the irony of being locked into a garden rather than out of one.

He stared up at the sky, noting the few stars that had battled the city’s light pollution and won. None of them were one of his. 

When he ran out of booze, he sat for a short while. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he made his way back to the hotel. 

The light in Aziraphale’s room was still on. 

Crowley sobered up a little and weighed his options. Going to his room would mean unlocking the door next to Aziraphale’s, which the angel would definitely hear. 

On the other hand, he’d had enough of feeling sorry for himself outside and wanted to crawl into bed and feel sorry for himself there. Of course, that just meant facing Aziraphale over breakfast in a few hours.

The third option... was something someone who was a bit of a wanker might do.

Crowley snapped his fingers, and his suitcase appeared next to him. Feeling slightly guilty—nothing new there—he started to make his way towards the train station.

  
  


Barely a block from the hotel, Crowley rounded the corner and was momentarily blinded by a burst of light. A towering pillar of Hellfire roared into existence four feet away.

He sobered up _immediately_.

A short, dark figure stepped out of the flames, which dwindled to a patch of embers behind him.

 _This is it_ , thought Crowley. _They’ve got me_. His stomach lurched, partly in fear and partly in relief that he hadn’t gone back to the hotel.

‘Beelzebub!’ he exclaimed cheerfully. ‘Fancy seeing you here. Business or pleasure?’

Beelzebub dusted some brimstone off of his jacket. ‘I think you know _exactly_ why I’m here.’

Crowley’s mouth went dry. ‘Is it for the crêpes? You’re a bit late for a snack, but I know a place in Pigalle that sells macarons all night.’

Beelzebub glared at him. ‘I’m _here_ because you’ve been straying, Crowley.’

Crowley’s fingers curled a little tighter around his suitcase handle, ready to swing it at the Prince of Hell and get the first blow in. Perhaps if he got him angry enough, Beelzebub would forget about Aziraphale long enough for the angel to escape.

‘You've been a naughty boy, haven't you?’

‘Well, that's sssort of in my job description,’ retorted Crowley, biting back a nervous hiss on the _s_.

‘London’s your patch,’ said Beelzebub. ‘Has been since the 1400s. You’ve no business in Paris.’

Crowley’s knees almost buckled with relief. He steadied himself on the suitcase.

‘There’s no reason for you to be outside the UK unless you’re influencing pertinent geopolitical events,’ continued Beelzebub. ‘Verrier spent a long time making sure Notre-Dame was a tinderbox and she’ll be very upset if she finds out that you’re interfering with her project.’

Crowley tried to recover his composure. ‘Oh, Verrier’s got France now? Good for her! Has she tried the crêpes yet?’ 

‘I think she’s been rather more focused on her _work_ ,’ responded Beelzebub pointedly. ‘As you ought to be.’

‘Right, right, understood, on my way to the Eurostar right now.’ Crowley picked up his suitcase and shook it. ‘ _Toot sweet_ , as they say.’

Beelzebub looked at him appraisingly. ‘Good.’ He paused. ‘Did you know that angel of yours is here?’ 

Crowley arranged his features into an expression of what he hoped was confusion rather than panic. ‘What angel? Oh, you mean Iz... Izarophile, was that his name? Didn’t know, no. Thanks for the tip.’

‘Aziraphale. You might want to keep a closer eye on him,’ said Beelzebub.

Crowley saluted. ‘Aye aye, captain.’

Beelzebub rolled his eyes and stepped back into the glowing embers on the pavement. The Hellfire surged up around him again. ‘Nice work on Brexit, by the way.’ He snapped his fingers and disappeared, leaving nothing more than a black scorch mark on the pavement.

Relief flooded through Crowley. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths through his nose. For a moment, he looked back in the direction he’d come from, the cosy light from the hotel painting the street a soft yellow.

 _No_.

He turned and marched in the direction of the Gare du Nord.

  
  


The first train was at 07:13. With the hour’s time difference between Paris and London, Crowley arrived back at his flat at about nine. The light on his voicemail was blinking. He ignored it and went to bed.

The phone woke him up again shortly after lunchtime.

‘Go _away_ ,’ he grumbled uselessly. He burrowed deeper under the covers, pressing the blankets to his ears. The phone clicked over to voicemail.

Aziraphale’s voice, awkward and anxious, punched its way through Crowley’s duvet. ‘ _Crowley, if you’re there, please pick up. Please. I'm—I’m heading back to London, so if—when you get this, um, can you call me there? Or meet me. Please._ ’

There was a pause. Then, oddly formal: ‘ _It's Aziraphale. Thanks. Bye._ ’

The voicemail ended.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. _No, no, no._ Talking about it would make it so much worse. 

He buried his face in the pillow. He would just stay here, under the covers, for a month or two. A couple of weeks at least. 

Crowley couldn’t bear the thought of the angel, nervously adjusting his bow-tie, matter-of-factly explaining that he was flattered, of course, but that this was basically a professional environment for both of them, and although he valued Crowley as a _colleague_ it would probably be best if they dialled back the after-hours fraternising somewhat.

He might just discorporate from embarrassment on the spot.

But if he didn’t get in touch, Aziraphale would definitely call again. And it’s not like discorporating could possibly feel any worse than this. 

Crowley huffed angrily and threw off the blankets. He glared at the little red light blinking menacingly on the answerphone.

He wasn’t going to sit here cowering and waiting to be reminded what an idiot he was. Best to just… clear it up. Explain himself.

_Look, Aziraphale, about yesterday—I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea or anything. I’m a demon, I can’t help… trying it on every now and again._

That would probably do it. A charming grin, a waggled finger from the angel, and they’d be back to normal.

  
  


The door to the bookshop opened with a gentle click. Crowley stepped into the gloom and took a deep breath, carefully cataloguing all the components of bookshop-scent that went into Aziraphale’s warm, reassuring presence. He trailed his fingers across the spines of the books, half luxuriating in the cocoon of darkness and familiarity and half suppressing his screaming nerves.

He hesitated near the back of the shop. Tucked between the bookcases dedicated to obscure sheet music and out-of-date books on economics was the door up to Aziraphale’s apartment. Crowley’s fingers brushed against the handle.

He knew there was a kitchen up there.

Perhaps there was a bedroom, too; somewhere cosy with freshly-laundered tartan bedding, soft lighting and a brass bedstead perfect for tying—

He yanked his hand back from the doorknob as though it had burned him. _No. Stop that, forever_.

Instead, he returned to the Aziraphale’s desk and leaned against the dark wood, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. 

  
  


The latch clicked open and Aziraphile appeared in the doorframe. He looked frazzled.

‘Oh dear God, _Crowley_.’

‘Hi, angel.’ Crowley tried to keep his voice steady as he put on his _what-a-surprise-to-see-you-here_ voice. With the late-afternoon sun behind him, Aziraphale was dazzling. He looked back to the fraying fabric of his jacket. _Oh, this was going to hurt._

Aziraphale advanced on Crowley, letting his overnight bag fall to the floor. ‘Thank goodness—I was so worried—there was a big patch of Hellfire—’

Crowley snapped to attention and took a few steps towards Aziraphale. ‘Hellfire? Angel, _are you alright?_ ’ His heart dropped to his shoes. _If Beelzebub had seen through him—if he hadn't lied convincingly enough—_

‘No—no, I'm fine, it was gone by the time I got there, I wasn't—’ Aziraphale seemed to sag a little. He put out a hand to steady himself on an armchair. Crowley took a few steps forward, cupping the angel’s elbow to support him. Aziraphale’s warmth bled through the rough fabric and sent a thrill straight up Crowley’s arm to his heart.

Aziraphale looked up, eyes blazing. ‘Where the dev—where on earth did you go? I looked all over Paris for you!’

Crowley flinched backwards. ‘I, ah. Needed some time. To think.’

‘ _To think?_ That’s it? _I thought you’d been discorporated_.’ Aziraphale scrubbed his hands through his hair, his eyes clenched shut.

Crowley desperately wanted to put his hands over Aziraphale’s, pull him close, comfort him. ‘Angel, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—’

‘I’ve been worried sick! Would it kill you to think about _me_ every once in a while?’ 

Crowley felt like he’d been punched. _I think about you all the time, every minute of every day—here, in Paris, in Hell, when I’m awake and when I’m dreaming—_

And suddenly making excuses, lying about his feelings, was impossible. 

‘I thought I'd lost you,’ said Aziraphale at the exact same moment Crowley said, ‘I love you.’

Aziraphale froze. ‘What?’ he whispered.

Crowley kicked the carpet and put his hands in his pockets. _Stupid, stupid._

Aziraphale took a shaky breath. ‘Crowley, what did you just say?’

Crowley briefly considered sprinting out of the shop and finding a church with a font full of holy water to dunk his head in. Unfortunately, Soho was a fairly godless place and he couldn’t remember whether there were any nearby churches that were still operational. He blinked hard, eyes burning with tears that, damn it, he was not going to let fall.

He shrugged and ran his sleeve over his face with a sniff. ‘Look, there's no need to make a big deal out of it.’

‘That's. Um.’ Aziraphale looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. 

Crowley huffed a laugh. ‘Bound to happen. Close quarters, long hours—and have you even _seen_ yourself? I’ll just—I'll take some time away. No need to worry yourself.’ He straightened his jacket and began to move towards the door.

‘Crowley—’ Aziraphale caught his wrist.

Crowley cast an anguished look back. ‘I’ll deal with it. Please. It doesn’t have to change anything.’

But Aziraphale tugged gently at his wrist, pulling him back. He lifted Crowley’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles. ‘My dear boy,’ he said, glowing with tenderness. ‘It changes everything.’ 

Crowley’s heart somersaulted in confusion. Aziraphale stepped closer and pulled him in, eyes searching his face as though he was seeing it for the first time. He raised a hand to stroke Crowley’s cheek and the touch of his fingers set off fireworks inside Crowley.

‘Angel, what—’ breathed Crowley. _This can’t be happening. I don't deserve this._

Aziraphale hushed him. ‘What a fool I’ve been,’ he whispered. ‘All this time—’

Crowley let himself be pulled in, head still spinning. ‘Angel, I never imagined—’ 

_That you might feel the same._ The words clung to his lips, refusing to leave his mouth. If he’d misunderstood (How could this be what Aziraphale meant? How could it not?) and the angel turned him down now he would crumble to ash and take the whole world with him.

‘Neither did I,’ replied Aziraphale. ‘But here we are. An angel and a demon.’

Crowley clenched his eyes shut and rested his forehead on Aziraphale’s. ‘Please say it,’ he said. ‘Please say it, angel—I don’t think I can believe it if you don’t say it.’ 

‘I love you,’ said Aziraphale fiercely, ‘more than I could ever have imagined loving anything in the world.’

Crowley took a shaky breath. It felt like the first breath he’d ever taken, and it turned into a half-sob, half-laugh on the exhale.

‘More than crêpes?’

Aziraphale gave a low chuckle. He gently pulled Crowley’s face towards his own and pressed his lips to Crowley’s. Crowley melted into the kiss with a whimper, filled with more bliss than he’d known for six millennia. 

‘More than crêpes,’ agreed Aziraphale, and pulled Crowley back in for another embrace.


End file.
